The Adventures of Sherlotter, Captain of The Hispaniola
by Feagalad
Summary: "Oh and I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone." Now what could be so compelling that DI Greg Lestrade would stoop to such underhanded, Adlerish blackmail tactics?


**Author's Note:** I know I should be updating 'A Lack of Betrayal' or 'Stranded in the Master's Hall'...but a gigantic, vicious plot bunny attacked me this fine day and would not grant me my freedom until this piece was written, edited, and published. So...yeah...enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own it, can't claim it.

* * *

Lestrade glanced up from his lunch – tuna salad…_again_ – as Sally burst into his office. "There's been a shooting, sir." She said, looking rather flustered. "Reports have come in about a shooting in Belgravia and Gregson has flung us under the bus, so to speak."

Stifling a groan (he should have known that introducing DI Gregson to Sherlock Holmes would one day come back to haunt him) Greg sat aside his suddenly delicious and beautifully peaceful lunch and went for his coat. "Gather a couple of the boys, Donovan, and we'll go investigate. Get the address."

* * *

They pulled up to the deceptively peaceful townhouse with sirens blaring and, when there was no sign of a battle, rushed the door. But there was nothing in the depressingly clinical-cleanliness of the entry way aside from a half-burnt newspaper and the smouldering remains of what Lestrade assumed had been a smoke alarm. Well…that was a bit odd but other than that there seemed to be little wrong with the scene. Perhaps they had responded to a false alarm? Greg hoped not. Aside from all the paperwork, Dimmock would never let him hear the end of it!

"_Greg_?" Lestrade looked up and saw the harried face of John Watson peering over the staircase. "Oh thank God!"

Lestrade began to have a sinking feeling about this whole affair because wherever Doctor Watson was, Sherlock Holmes was soon to follow. At least Anderson hadn't come along for the ride this time.

"Look." John was still talking. "There are three incapacitated Americans in the sitting room; two unconscious, one dead, and there is also one unconscious woman upstairs. The weapons are all in the living room and – " He looked back over his shoulder, " – I _really _need your help, Greg." His face left the officers' sight, but he called back in exasperated tones as the ambulance sirens sounded, "And it was Sherlock who did the shooting…he said you lot would respond faster, daft sod." There was a clatter from the second floor.

With a sigh (this day suddenly was looking to be twice as long and definitely migraine-inducing) Lestrade looked at Sergeant Donovan. "You check out those bodies and secure the perimeter. I'll go and check on Doctor Watson's patient upstairs." What he really wanted to know was how the Baker Street duo fit into this mess and where the _hell_ Sherlock was! It just wasn't like the taller man to not have swooped in with a sneer or two by this point.

* * *

"Jawn, 'm feel…feel ordigible!" Was the first thing Lestrade heard upon gaining the landing. The baritone voice was unmistakable…even if the slurring did sound a bit out-of-place. The last time he had heard Sherlock sounding so disoriented was when he found the genius all strung out on a recently administered hit of 7% solution. Trusting that the presence of Doctor Watson meant that he would at least find Sherlock sober, Lestrade hoped that the arrogant git wasn't otherwise injured…it would be a hellish few hours if he was for whatever else you could call him, Sherlock was not a willing patient.

"I know, Sherlock." John said, sounding unbelievably weary. "Just stay still. Lestrade's on his way up…I hope."

"I'm here." Greg said, feeling more annoyed than he probably should have at John's scepticism. All negative feelings were promptly banished, however, when he entered a bedroom to see Watson bending over the prone form of the world's only Consulting Detective who was thrashing weakly on the floor. "Good lord, man, what happened?" Greg demanded.

"W'man." Sherlock giggled. "Th' w'man…bad, _v'ry_ bad."

Feeling very much as though he had just dropped down the proverbial rabbit hole, Greg looked to the good doctor for an explanation. John sighed, sounding very put out, and gave a short, terse answer to the unspoken question. "We were working on a case for Mycroft and there was a woman who drugged Sherlock. Now will you help me get him off the floor?"

Eventually, after much grunting and groaning and swearing, the two men managed to haul Sherlock upright and got him supported between them. Greg stifled a squeal as Sherlock's ridiculously shiny shoes tramped down on his toe. "Now what?"

* * *

Between the two of them, Greg and John managed to get Sherlock down the stairs and out of the house with no small amount of difficulty (the most memorable moment was when the detective decided that banisters were for sliding down rather than holding on to). Thankfully, Donovan was nowhere to be seen as they maneuvered Sherlock towards the backseat of a police car (the ambulance was long gone) and the consulting detective crowed out something about 'The Hispaniola'. John gave a long-suffering sigh and scrubbed a weary hand over his face before crawling into the backseat after his flatmate. Greg got into the front and started up the engine. "Where to, John?" He asked, pulling out his phone to send a text to Donovan. "D'you think he needs a trip to A&E?"

John was taking Sherlock's pulse, despite the detective's slurred protests, and shook his head. "No I don't think so. He seems to be more high than in danger of an overdose right now – probably his past history has raised his resilience – so I'm just going to try and let him sleep it off rather than inflicting him on the poor emergency staff."

"Baker Street it is, then." Greg pulled out of the street and set a course to take Sherlock home.

* * *

"Jawn…JAAAAWWWN!" Lestrade gritted his teeth as Sherlock's whiny, half-giddy tones sounded from the backseat again. What he wouldn't give to put the idiot in a sleeper hold for a few seconds. John Watson must have the patience of a saint!

"What is it, Sherlock?" Even Saint John was beginning to sound a bit cross, though.

Sherlock giggled and tapped John's nose with one long finger. "You're'm hed – hed…my 'edgehog!" He ruffled John's hair and continued giggling like a loon.

"Uh…okay." John gingerly disentangled Sherlock's hands from his hair and was taken aback when the normally aloof detective flung both arms around the shorter man with a grin. "Sherlock! What are you doing?"

"S'ft." The baritone voice was muffled from where it was buried in John's checkered shirt. "S'ft. N't right. H'dgehogs prickly, Jawn s'ft."

_Good lord…was he _snuggling_?_ Lestrade couldn't help himself and held up his phone (they were waiting in traffic). "If John's a hedgehog what does that make you, sunshine?"

Sherlock raised his head and gave the camera a solemn look. "An ottler. 'm an ottler."

Exchanging an amused look with John in the rear-view window, Lestrade chuckled. "Very well, _Sherlotter_."

"You laugh." 'Sherlotter' protested woozily. "'tain't f'nny!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and put away his phone, refocusing on the road and ignoring the desperate attempts John was making to extricate himself from Sherlock's death grip. He would keep the video safely sequestered away for the next time he needed leverage against the arrogant prat and his evidence-nicking habit.

At last the good doctor seemed to give up on his quest (probably because of the realisation that Sherlock was less likely to slip off the seat in his current position) and manoeuvred the consulting detective's head so that it was resting in his lap. Glaring at Greg and daring the DI to crack a joke, John concentrated on keeping Sherlock anchored as well as monitoring his pulse.

* * *

"…yo ho, p'rate's l'fe for me!"

"Is he…singing?" Greg asked John who nodded in a resigned sort of way.

"Th' curse 'f th' Bl'ck Sp't!" Sherlock waved an articulate hand in the air wildly, giggling hysterically as it smacked again John's chin.

"Any chance you could step on it, Greg?" The doctor asked from between gritted teeth, catching the hand in his own grip.

"I could try the siren."

John glanced at Sherlock and grimaced. "Probably not a great idea, mate. I hate to think what he'd make of it right now."

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson – can you be ready to open up the door, please?"

John had taken the precaution of calling their landlady ahead and to give her due warning of Sherlock's compromised state. The detective was beginning to lag, eyes drooping and body going alarmingly limp. "Don't you _dare_ fall asleep before we get you in bed." Lestrade said. Sherlock opened a mouth to attempt a snarky reply…but promptly keeled over and threw up all over the floor of the car. For once John thanked God for his short stature as it meant that he had been able to remove his feet from the firing line. Lestrade let out a string of curses from the front seat and they surged through a yellow light a bit more aggressively than was strictly necessary. Sherlock let out a warning moan as he was jostled against the back of the seat and miserably muttered. "Jawn…d'n't feel good."

"Greg, be careful." John said in warning, trying to keep Sherlock still. They were almost there. One more turn and they'd be at Baker Street. "Hang on, Sherlock."

"D'n't leave m'."

"I'm not…calm down." The doctor breathed a deep sigh of relief as Lestrade parked right next to 221B and Mrs. Hudson dutifully held the door open. Now how to get Sherlock out of the smelly back seat? Lestrade solved the dilemma by firmly grasping Sherlock's wrists and pulling the detective out in one fluid motion. Sherlock groaned and doubled over, spitting out a bit of bile and mumbling about those cursed otters again. Gingerly avoiding the sick, John clambered out of the police car and slung Sherlock's right arm over his shoulder as he and the DI helped the consulting detective in through the door. Mrs. Hudson was all sympathetic cooing as she looked her youngest tenant up and down.

"I'll just go upstairs and prepare his bed for him. Poor lad!"

Even in illness the 'poor lad' seemed to be determined to make things as difficult as possible. Just as they were about to try the stairs, Sherlock finally collapsed – losing his stubborn battle against the drug's soporific effects with a dramatic swoon.

"Great." Greg muttered moodily. "Just wonderful."

"At least he didn't puke on your shoes." John supplied helpfully, sagging a bit under Sherlock's unconscious form.

"Thank God for small mercies." He turned to John. "Here – let me carry him. He'd never have let me while he was awake…but he's not exactly in a position to complain, now is he?" Without further ado, the DI hoisted Sherlock up over his shoulder in a fireman's hold and started up the stairs, puffing and blowing under the detective's outrageously tall frame. "He's heavier than the last time I had to do this." Greg observed, pausing on the first landing to catch his breath and reposition his grip.

"Need any help?"

"Nah…just be there to catch us if we fall."

It was a relief when they finally gained the top of the steps and made it back to the bedroom where Lestrade dropped Sherlock on the bed with a sigh.

"What happened to him?" Mrs. Hudson fretted, fluttering around and arranging things like the coverlet and pillows.

John set about pulling off Sherlock's shoes while Greg massaged his shoulder and swore never to carry that great skinny lump anywhere again. "We were on a case for Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and there was a run-in with a couple of CIA agents and Sherlock ended up drugged. He should be fine by morning; _she _said he would sleep it off."

Lestrade wondered who the 'she' was, because he had never heard John use such a tone of loathing for any female before…not even Donovan at her most vindictive.

"Poor dear." Mrs. Hudson smoothed back Sherlock's sweaty curls with a gentle hand before patting John on the shoulder. "I'll go and make you a cuppa then. Are you staying, Detective Inspector?"

John, who was trying to remove Sherlock's suit jacket, glanced up from his daunting task quizzically. Much as he would like to have stayed and enjoyed some tea…he had seen the state of the kitchen only moments ago and decided to beat a hasty retreat rather than have to consume anything from that disaster zone, no matter if it _was_ Mrs. Hudson who prepared it. "I really must be getting back to the crime scene. Donovan won't be happy if I leave her hanging for too long." He looked back at John. "Think you can manage him?"

"I live with him, don't I?" John said, tossing the jacket into a corner and turning Sherlock in the bed.

Taking that as a dismissal, Lestrade departed back to his crime scene, but not before taking his phone out and enjoying the adventures of Sherlotter one last time.


End file.
